Fiction Non-Fiction Series

Tabloid Fiction

Science and Fiction

Text: The door at my grandparents' apartment was heavy. The look-out window on the door rattled easily when there was a strong breeze. When we were little, my brother and I thought that this door could stop monsters from coming in, and all the while, we would be able to see them through the look-out window. We didn't quite grow up before we left behind the safety offered by this door. We weren't there when the monsters came. BANG BANG they pounded. Sitting in her wheel chair with half a mind, my grandma knew nothing of it. My uncle and aunt hid in their room, and my grandpa quickly got on the phone with the police. Bang Band they pounded. The walls crumbled and the door stood meaningless. The powerful spiraling arms dragged everything into the singularity even home cannot escape. Four towering high-rise apartments can fit into this space, but the mind cannot. The space in every dream might change but the door did not. I can still hear the rattling of the look-out window. Rattled by a strong breeze.

Text: "We had a nice summer. We went to Disney world. With light shows and special effects, we didn't know what that implied. We didn't care much about politics. That was when the genetic time bomb went off. A microscopic explosion laid out the events to come. She never had a chance. The invasion was to take everything, secure the area, put up headquarters, antennas to communicate, plans to expand. they ran along her highway, cutting off any supplies and help, converting others to believe. And they had their freedom. Everywhere started to look alike. What was once unique is buried under rubble. Two years in remission and we thought it was the end. Then they kidnapped her. For the first time, she felt body and mind separating. Unable to act, she frantically shook. Her body could no longer bear its own weight. She looked in the mirror and saw nothing. And in her sleep, she was silenced."

Text: "There is a beat, a time specific cycle of washing machines and dryers. Lights were not dimmed, nor was anyone following him. I concentrate on what is not. He concentrates in synchronizing his schizophrenic beat. His movements are patterned, calculated, and repetitive. Conforming to some dated social idea. His clothing -ordinary: a mechanic or a construction worker. There are speckles and dried up paint here and there. Although he can't see them, he likes to belong somewhere else with his gold-rimmed glasses. I wished I wasn't there to witness his drunken steps. His hysteria frightened my love of the mundane. And then he speaks. Narrating the sermon he once was, illustrating the scene with his desperate stuttering words: a boy in his tailor made suit and tie was led by his mother in his first dance. As we were washing off the daily build up on our clothes, he is washing off the time between him and his youth, the space between him and his late mother. The dance was a manifestation of love. The dance was a manifestation of love. It was his Mother's pride. It is what he cherishes today. It is what he lost. I didn't feel sympathy. Rather, I was embarassed by my presumptuousness. I am wordless still today. And his smile lingers on."